Rainy Days And Mondays

Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On!

I cried a river over Truly Madly Deeply.

Actually that's a lie. It did not engage me one iota. It was an English middle class Ghost without the raw sexual magnetism of Patrick Swayze, the most beautiful man who has ever lived, the epitome of raw, animal, male manliness. Alan Rickman? Give me a break! I'd like to see Alan flaming Rickman lift a woman over the threshold and get a good old manly sweat going on top of her, muscles bulging like fuck.

But didn't I cry over Juliet Stevenson's grief? No I bloody didn't. It was hardly Breaking the fucking Waves, was it? Not that that made me feel anything, either.

Hard bastard, aren't I?

So we come to Distant Voices, Still Lives which I hadn't seen since it was originally out.

"Classic film," I said to Betty before watching it. "A real tear-jerking working class story. Made all the more poignant because the writer and director, Terence Davies, died tragically young."

"What did he die of?" said a morbid Betty.

"Cancer, I think. He was famous for his trilogy, you know. Known as the Terence Davies Trilogy. It's recently been released on DVD."

So we watched the film.

What I'd found unbearably beautiful twenty years ago I now found unbearably mawkish. Had I changed that much? What had happened to that sensitive young man?

Still, poor Terence Davies. When did he die? Was it the big C? Let's look him up, shall we?

Nope. He's not dead. That's Bill Douglas. Of Bill Douglas Trilogy fame. Now he was a great film maker.

******

Later, we watch a documentary on The Carpenters. And the tears come.

I'm sensitive once more.

Happy 70th Birthday, Sir Michael Terence Wogan, You Old Bore

When Wogan's eyes are smiling
He'll play some shit by Sting.
In the lilt of Wogan's laughter,
You can hear Katie Melua sing.
When Wogan's heart is happy,
All the world seems dull and grey.
And when Wogan's eyes are smiling,
Sure, you just wish he'd go away.

(Click here for tune)

Terry Wogan followed by Jimmy Young. Radio 2 always seemed to be on during my school holidays. My mum had the same holidays as me. Those were the dinner lady years.

I do so envy those born later whose mums would listen to the groovy sounds of Radio 1.

I'm joking.

My dad never listened to the radio at home. Maybe it was on at work and he never told me about it. He did seem to know a bit about modern music. He must have heard it somewhere.

Fanfare For The Comma, Man

Here's Vampire Weekend's Oxford Comma...




Great, isn't it? But what is an Oxford comma? Shall I tell you?

Imagine you are a man who is getting dressed for the office in the morning. Do you put on (in strict order)...

pants, vest, socks, shirt, trousers and tie?

Or...

pants, vest, socks, shirt, trousers, and tie?

See the difference? See the Oxford comma in the second example?

My old English teacher drummed it into us that there should never be a comma before the "and" in a list. Now and again I throw one in to be a devil.

The song's author, Ezra Koenig, was inspired to write it when he discovered that there was a Columbia University student group which named themselves "Students for the Preservation of the Oxford Comma". Hence the first line "Who gives a fuck about an Oxford comma?"

I certainly don't. Life is too short for getting all excited about other people's use of grammar. I've never read Eats Shoots and Leaves and I don't intend to. In fact, if I were ever to open a greengrocer's shop I'd call it The Rogue Apostrophe Greengrocer's and make sure it was fully stocked with potatoe's, green's, green bean's, tomatoe's, and (note the Oxford comma) asparagus tip's for the grammar stream.

Today's Management Decision

11 a.m.

Here we go again. We've had ducklings, a duck, pigeons, a seagull. Now we've got another juvenile seagull on top of the building outside our office fire escape window.

Like all those others, it can't fly away. Poor fucker.

Women are clucking around it, talking to it like it's a human baby, feeding it fishy cat food, keeping its bowl (yes, its bowl) topped up with fresh drinking and bathing water.

The RSPB say there's a bloke in Yorkshire who's a volunteer who may be able to arrange for another local volunteer to take it to the coast and release it into the wild. That's what happened with the other seagull - you'll see it at Hastings next time you're there. The Society say that if it is uneconomical for someone to come (credit crunch alert!) it shouldn't be fed out of a dish but food should be spread all over the roof, dotted around in small portions so the bird gets used to the scavenging lifestyle. Its mother may encourage it to fly and, who knows, it may take off.

The fat fucker's had six tins of cat food in two days!

The women have not called the RSPCA as "they put birds down".

What to do? What to do?

*****

12.15 p.m.

A bloke from the office next door turns up with an RSPCA warden. She picks up the screeching bird.

"I see you're feeding her," she says. "Do you want me to leave her here?"

"Where would you take him?"

"To a wildlife sanctuary," says the warden. "Do you want me to take her?"

"What do you think, Geoff?"

"Yes, please. Take it."

My Friends Ain't Enough For One Hand

My mum's concerned about me and Betty.

You haven't got a hobby. You do nothing with your spare time.

We do. We watch telly. We read. We listen to music. We blog.

Yes but you don't communicate with other people.

Blogging is communicating.

Yes, but it's not face to face. I don't know any other couples like you. Most normal couples have a social life. They meet up with other couples. They go round to other couples' houses. They entertain.

What have we got in common with other couples? Come to think of it what have I ever had in common with most people? Besides, I've got my friends.

Which you see how often?

They're miles away! How often would you see your friends if they moved hundreds of miles away?

We're always making new friends. We've got friends from dancing. Friends from bowls. Friends who we meet on holiday - we're always chatting to new people when we're on holiday. Tell me, Geoff. Are you really happy? Are you really really happy with your life?

Outside of work?

Yes, of course.

Yes.

You need a hobby, though. One where you meet people. Golf.

I hate golf.

You used to play sports. Tennis.

That was for the competition. I didn't make any friends from tennis.

I'm not going to get anywhere with you two am I?

We're happy with our sad little lives.

Are you doing anything at the weekend?

Of course not. You?

Of course.

Nutty Nuptials

"Wayne phoned me from Scotland last night. He said the wedding was fantastic, the best he's ever been to. You'll never guess where it was held."

"In a castle?"

"No. A field! In the middle of a field in Scotland! You'll never guess what the dress code was."

"Kilts?"

"No! Wellies! Wellies in a field in Scotland! You'll never guess what they sang."

"Donald Where's Your Troosers (Trad Arr)?"

"No. Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life! You know, the Monty Python song!"

Avery Brundage - A Life In Sport

It's forty years since Tommie Smith and John Carlos gave their Black Power salute on the Olympic rostrum, the most enduring image in the history of the Games.

The documentary, Black Power Salute, filled us in on the background and the characters involved in the event.

It also introduced me to a new villain. Avery Brundage was the International Olympic Committee president at the time. He was fiercely against involving politics in sport and expelled both Smith and Carlos from the Olympic Village and then made sure they were suspended from the US Olympic team.

See if you can spot the difference between the damning biography of Brundage on Wikipedia and the "non-political" stance taken by the Olympic Movement.

Buggered if I can.

WALL-E: THE ALTERNATIVE CUT

SOUNDTRACK WRITTEN AND PERFORMED BY YORK-E





WALL-E: THE ALTERNATIVE CUT

SOUNDTRACK WRITTEN AND PERFORMED BY YORK-E

DOWNLOAD

CD

CD/DVD

MEMORY STICK

HEAD IMPLANT

OUT SOON

The Victorian Restaurant, Bexleyheath: An Apology

Back in December 2006, I unfairly wrote a very unflattering review of The Victorian Restaurant, Bexleyheath. Since then my review has not left the front page of Google searches for the restaurant and people have been reading the post in droves.

Today I had my first comment from one of my new readers. They wrote the following...


"I can tell you would not know a first class meal at a resonable price if it bit you on your Burburry cap covered empty heads. Stick to MacDonalds you cheap, moronic, unappreciative egits.

By the way the Victoria Restaurant is a fantastic place to eat, we had our company Christmas do there and found the food, wine, surroundings and staff to be excellent."

I must say I am humbled and I wish to put on record that my experience in the restaurant was tainted by a brain disorder that was shortly afterwards corrected by some very strong prescription drugs.

That December I was in the grip of an irrational hatred for French food. Frogs' legs, snails, foie gras, petits filous, anything French in fact. That day I purposely ordered an English roast, knowing full well that this was the equivalent of choosing omelette and chips in an Indian restaurant. This marked me out as common to the core and fully deserving of a teaspoon of the head chef's spunk mixed in with my gravy. Not that that sort of thing actually goes on. I mean, can you imagine Gordon Ramsay knocking one out into the watercress soup as he effs and jeffs his way through a tense evening populated by incompetent staff and rude customers?

So, dear readers, if ever you're in Bexleyheath, come and join me for some top notch French cuisine. The Duck A L'Orange sounds right up my rue!

Street Survival

When I'm walking where there are people about...

If someone in front of me lights a cigarette I quicken my pace and overtake them.

If someone in front of me smells of bad body odour I quicken my pace and overtake them.

If someone in front of me smells of urine I quicken my pace and overtake them.

If someone in front of me has been shopping in Lush I quicken my pace and overtake them.

Don't Step On The Cracks

I don't believe in superstitions but I've had a few over the years. Usually of the sort, "if I don't throw this piece of paper directly in the bin, I've got a terminal illness." I've never missed unless I've tried the old "if I throw this piece of paper directly into the bin, I've got a terminal illness." OK, I can change my mind when the paper's in mid-flight.

When I was a young teenager I had a book written by an author who'd died of a terminal illness. I couldn't bring myself to read it and kept it on top of the wardrobe, back picture cover down so I couldn't catch whatever had killed him.

In recent years my main one involves my funeral tie. If my navy blue funeral tie falls off its tie rack, it means someone is going to die. It does fall off occasionally, but as yet the funeral I'm expecting to attend in the near future hasn't happened.

This proves to me that superstition is nonsense.

I've also yet to be convinced that the future can be "read" by "chosen" people. A work colleague of mine has just been to see a Tarot reader. She was told that there are going to be six redundancies at work in August and that in the end our department will be one of the last ones to go.

This is patently nonsense. It's not August, it's September!

The Long Walk To Finchley

This drama was about Thatcher's early political years. Her failure to get selected to be a candidate in East Kent, her success in capturing Britain's most eligible divorcee Denis, her success in producing two beautiful twins and her eventual success in winning over the Tories in Finchley (with a little help from the lovelorn (yes, lovelorn) Ted Heath....

Yes, it was more a comedy really. Including really hackneyed jokes foretelling things that were to happen later in the evil family's life which I won't bore you with here.

What was disconcerting, however, was that she was played by the outstandingly beautiful Andrea Riseborough...



Jesus, I fancy Thatcher!

"I wonder if anybody's ever pleasured themselves to a picture of the real Thatcher?" said Betty.

"And anticipating the moment of release shouted 'MAGGIE! MAGGIE! MAGGIE!...'"

"OUT! OUT! OUT!"


N.B. The retiring Member for Finchley was played by the increasingly jowly Geoffrey Palmer (who I once saw in Tesco's)

Hit The North

I got in from work last night and Betty was livid. I could tell because Adam and The Ants were blaring out from the stereo.

"I've recorded some of Richard and Judy for you," she said. You've got to see it. I'm so angry."

This was the cause of her ire.

"I can't believe it," I said. "Not another book deal for a blogging middle class English woman. This one sounds even worse than the rest. Speaking as a husband, son and a father..."

"You're not a father. Are you?"

"OK maybe not. But how on earth does this twat represent bloggers? I've got absolutely nothing in common with her. She calls it work! Work! It's not bloody work! It's a bleeding diversion from work! I'm going to do a post about this. About how all the published bloggers are middle class women. What about the working class male bloggers, eh? What about blogs such as...as... MY BIRD IS A SORT!"

"OK."

"Or GEEZER WITH A PERMANENT HARD ON."

"FIRST BEER OF THE DAY?"

"PROUD SCOUSER IN THE COSTAS."

"WIFE IN THE DOCK."

"Yeah, what about them? Middle class wanker publishers."

Betty's Birthday Meal

So we booked a table at a Soho restaurant for Saturday evening. Not realising Saturday was Pride London Day. As opposed to London Pride Day which would attract streets of Keith Flett lookalikes.

We walked through Soho as the party was winding down. Or was it winding up for the night to come? Well, we walked through Soho in a bit of an alcoholic daze, unfazed by the bloke pissing against a wall and the broken bottles underfoot. In the restaurant, we sat at a window table so we could see younger people drinking, chatting, kissing, hugging, punching and littering. A glass or a bottle was thrown at the restaurant window. I felt bloody old.

At 9.30 precisely, the street cleaners came and removed all the rubbish from the street. A little later the fire brigade turned up to sort out a gush which was making a bit of a river of one side of the street. They came, they went and everybody carried on doing what they were doing.

I'd chosen the restaurant from the Time Out Guide 1998. Back then, Phill Jupitus was a regular. The food was supposed to be decent and the portions were meant to be large, plenty enough for a man of Jupitus' girth. Of course we didn't see him there and no wonder, for he would have needed ten main courses as his starter.

We left the restaurant, unsatiated, and walked back through the partying crowd, just avoiding stepping in a drunk young woman's vomit. We missed our train by 30 seconds. With half an hour to kill we went to the nearest pub where they graciously relieved us of £9.50 for two glasses of wine.

We stepped off the train the other end and my stomach was demanding more food. So into the kebab shop it was for a nice hot portion of chips. While we were waiting for the order, a very unusual family got out of a cab and joined us at the counter. Dad had a head like a violent billiard ball and big earrings. Mum and the kids looked like they'd stepped out of a 1973 holiday camp. This was obviously the climax to their night out. Kebabs and chips to take away.

They seemed to be regulars. All it now needed was Phill Jupitus to walk in to make it the perfect evening.

He didn't.

That Hateful Inch

I haven't watched any of Wimbledon this year. Neither has Betty. Yet we both used to be big tennis fans. What happened?

I'll tell you what happened, kids. Are you sitting comfortably?

The inch that changed tennis forever happened, that's what happened. I bang on about this every Wimbledon-time. Though it applies to any of the other just as important as Wimbledon tournaments around the world.

The article I've linked to seems to think it was a good thing. Well they would because they sell the monstrosity that is the modern tennis racquet. Let me take you back to a time much gentler than the current time.

There was a ten year old boy called Geoffrey. His dad's friend played social tennis. No, this was not a euphemism for swinging...

Geoffrey's dad's friend was a very nice man. And he offered to teach the boy how to play tennis. He leant him a racquet, very similar to his own. He showed him the basics.

After a few elementary lessons, Geoffrey was able to hit the ball against a wall. He practised and practised against the wall of the garage bordering the local field. He could hit the ball harder and more accurate. He was ready to play with other people.

Meanwhile, Geoffrey's friend had been taught a few elementary strokes. He had practised, too.

So they joined a club together. They joined the junior section of their local tennis club. There was no tuition there. The kids were left to get on with it.

So Geoffrey and his friend played against each other. Hour after hour, game after game, set after set. They developed well, with their own individual styles. As they got older, they were invited to play with the seniors. They could hold their own as they had the individual techniques to surprise their stronger opponents. They both specialised in a heavy topspin forehand, though they could vary their strokes using drop shots, lobs, slices, etc. They only went to the net when forced to. They hugged the baseline.

Then came the extra inch.

Suddenly, racquets became wider. There was more room for error. What used to be a balls up with the old racquet became a winning shot with the new. Slow, considered skill was out, POWER was in.

Everybody started buying the new bigger racquets. They became more confident, more powerful players overnight. More aces were being hit. Serve and volley was where it was at. POW! POW! Baseline players with old-fashioned smaller wooden racquets were getting blasted off court. Taller players were at an advantage. They could serve, volley and smash. The little guys couldn't use their guile any more. A game of chess became a game of real war.

I miss the days when you could measure the correct height of the net by laying one racquet horizontally on top of a vertical one. When the game was hypnotically beautiful, to play and to watch. The game lost me a long time ago. And it's not having me back.

Top Tips

Some useful information I learnt from watching Tuesday's episode of Criminal Justice. If you're ever banged up in prison, tell them you're a Mormon. That's the wonderful Pete Postlethwaite's line, anyway. If you say you're a Mormon you won't get the revolting prison tea, but a delicious mug of hot chocolate. But isn't there caffeine in chocolate, too? Ours is not to wonder why.

This reminds me of some more advice I was once given. If ever you're in hospital, say you only eat kosher food. It's brought in from outside and is hot and delicious. The only thing is, if you're unlikely to make it out of hospital you get a visit from the rabbi. Who'll probably ask you if you're eating well.

By the way, star spotters, guess which one of the following I just made eye contact with in the street...

1. Mitch Winehouse, leaning out of his cab, buying a copy of The Evening Standard.

2. Leonard Cohen, combing his hair, looking at his reflection in the window of Currys.

3. ABC's Martin Fry walking towards Covent Garden, in conversation with an attractive young lady.

The 1970s That Never Went Away

My mum has recently started a diary. So has my stepdad. They're to remind them of what they've done in case they forget. They haven't got blogs, though. My mum's glad I've got a hobby but a little concerned about what sort of people I may be mixing with. "They could be swingers, or anything," she's said.

Of course you can never tell who's up to what. I was once in a pub with a young man from work, his father, and his father's male friend. We were all peckish so one of them suggested we go for a meal. On the way to the restaurant, I was asked "Are you sure you want to do this? You know what this is about, don't you? It's not just a meal, you know." I graciously made my excuses and had a bean burger at Burger King.

So how would you react if you had heard that someone you know may be, say, a swinger? Just supposing, of course. I'm not saying that I'm in a similar situation at the moment. Oh no, far from it. How would you act in their presence?

Would you...

a) Whistle the tune to the Jungle Book song King of the Swingers?

b) Whisper in their ear, "Come on, big boy, show us your car keys"?

c) Continue to act as if you know nothing, trying but failing not to imagine exactly what goes on?

Saturday Glastonbury 2008

Betty: Is there something wrong with me? I can't understand why people like her.

Geoff: I can understand why people like her. I can't understand why intelligent people like her.

Betty: It's like, if you were in a bar where she was performing, you'd carry on your conversation.

Geoff: She's the new Sade. Coffee table music.

Betty: It's like the 80s all over again. When pop music was very polished, accomplished and boring. I hate pop music now.

Geoff: I bet this is going to go on for the full hour. They're not going to show any Elbow or Hot Chip. It's the BBC trying to outdo ITV. If she hadn't been on that Nelson Mandela thing we wouldn't get a full hour of this...Well, actually we probably would. Because everybody's supposed to think she's some sort of genius.

Betty: I'd prefer James Blunt to this. At least you can laugh at him. He's a Tim Nice But Dim figure to me. This is just depressing.

Geoff: It's a choice between this...Joan Armatrading...The Wombats...Sod it, we're watching The Wire.

Betty: "When you walk through the garden..."

Geoff: "You gotta watch your back..."

Betty: "Well I beg your pardon..."

Geoff: "Walk the straight and narrow track..."

Betty: "If you walk with Jesus..."

Geoff: "He's gonna save your soul..."

Betty: "You gotta keep the devil..."

Geoff: "Way down in the hole..."

Betty: "He's got the fire and the fury..."


...ad nauseum...

Seven Songs

Boz has kindly handed me the meme baton. His own choices are great so go check 'em out.

So I must "List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they’re not any good, but they must be songs you’re really enjoying now, shaping your spring. Post these instructions in your blog along with your seven songs."

Although my spring sprung many moons ago, I can still dream...


1. Rush - Closer To The Heart
A week in Cornwall with nothing but Planet Rock to listen to may have been depressing but it made me re-evaluate my past. I still liked quite a few of the songs including this wondrous Yes rip-off. And any radio station that has Alice Cooper and Rick Wakeman as DJs can't be all bad.

2. Spiritualized - Soul On Fire
He nearly died, you know! Just think how good he could be if he was clean!

3. Sex Pistols - Bodies
Not an "abortion" song, a "Pauline" song. For more information, read "more info" on the YouTube page.

4. David Bowie - John, I'm Only Dancing
We can't get this version anywhere, just the inferior one on The Best Of David Bowie 1969/74.

5. Grandmaster Flash & Melle Mel - White Lines
I've heard this by accident three times in the past few weeks. Is it linked to a new film or something? I wasn't too keen on it when it first came out but I love it now.

6. Scooter - Jumping All Over The World
To celebrate Germany's forthcoming triumphant Euro 2008 victory. As a result of my recent reading and watching, I can imagine a troop of Shane MacGowan's uncles and the puppets from Team America dancing to this. The chorus is, of course, lifted from the sublime A Glass Of Champagne by the brilliant Sailor. Now there's a solid gold classic.

7. Quiet Village - Too High To Move
From one of the albums of the year by Brighton's answer to The Avalanches. What the fuck happened to The Avalanches?

I hereby hand the baton to those of you on my sidebar who haven't yet done this. I'm nosey that way.

North Cornwall, June 2008

It started so well. The weather and the scenery were beautiful.


Absolutely gorgeous

We were really relaxed and laid back.


The foot that launched a thousand ships



Then came the dark clouds.


If Anton Corbijn sold holidays...

And with them came a cloud over my mood. A mini nervous breakdown, caused by the following...

1. Work frustrations rearing their ugly head.
2. The dead atmosphere in the village's one horse pub with its loop of The Eagles Greatest Hits Including The Really Shit Stuff From The Eighties and the seventies menu including gammon with pineapple rings.
3. The small claustrophobic rooms in the cottage.
4. Being woken at 6.30 each morning by the clippety clop hooves of a ghost horse.
5. The shit radio reception in the cottage, giving us a choice of the appalling Virgin or the "Take me back to when I was a miserable fifteen year old" Planet Rock.
6. The shit television reception in the cottage which made all the Euro 2008 matches look like they were being played in snowstorms.
7. Our dirty clothes getting locked in the cottage's broken washing machine.
8. A hairy coastal drive in which I thought the car was going to break down stuck on the edge of a cliff as I attempted a tricky seventy-three point turn.

We left for home six days early.

Those of you who aren't going on holiday this year can laugh your tits off. Go on, it's funny. Those of you going somewhere more sensible, I salute you.

I need a holiday.

A Hard Rain's a-Gonna Fall

We're off for a couple of weeks on Saturday. Not saying where, mind.

In the meantime, why not go here for some sizzling sausage discourse?

p.s. Bloglines had better sort themselves out by the time we get back. Or at least reply to my query!

Mark Lawson Interviews Alexei Sayle

Something Alexei Sayle said in interview with Mark Lawson. Something along the lines of "You can't be a real writer and host game shows at the same time."

I've never read a novel by Stephen Fry so I'm not really qualified to agree or disagree with Sayle. But I did accidently turn QI on for a couple of minutes at the weekend and wasn't really surprised by the level of sixth form debating society smugness on show.

I confuse Mark Lawson with that journalist who told the Scientologist "YOU WERE NOT THERE!" I kept expecting him to interrupt Sayle with those words. But Sayle was talking about his life and he was there.

He said Ben Elton decided he was going to be famous early on and everything he does is in the pursuit of fame. Ben will never be satisfied. I regularly see young women on the train reading Ben Elton novels. It never seems to be the same one. I'm sure that would satisfy most ugly middle aged men.

I have never attempted to read a Ben Elton novel, or an Alexei Sayle one. I did once try a Rob Newman one but couldn't get into it. I have never read a David Baddiel novel or a Frank Skinner novel or a Dawn French novel or a Jennifer Saunders novel or an Adrian Edmondson novel or a Lenny Henry novel either.

I wonder if any of you have ever read a novel written by one of the New Wave Of Alternative Comedians? Jo Brand? Arthur Smith? You know, one of those.

Royal Flush

It has been announced that Gillian McKeith has been employed by the Royal Family as their personal health advisor.

Here we see the first interview for the post of Royal Faeces Inspector.

The job is live-in and commands a salary of £12,600 per annum. The Queen is interviewing candidates herself as she wants someone she can look in the eye and feel comfortable with.

My Head is My Only House Unless it Rains

The credit crunch is biting or the credit bite is crunching, whatever, and people are losing their homes and first time buyers can't afford mortgages. Of course, it's been coming a long time as house prices have been obscene for a very long time and they've just been getting more and more obscene year by year.

BBC's The Money Programme and Panorama investigate by snooping on a few people's lives.

Except they don't choose people who you may feel sympathy for, people with mortgages at an almost sensible multiple of their salaries (I say "almost sensible" because it has been impossible for some years now for most people to afford a property with a wholly sensible mortgage).

The programme makers choose people like:-

1. The 19 year old boy who lives with his parents. His girlfriend and young child live with her parents. His parents are willing to give him the deposit on a house but mortgage lenders consider him too big a risk. He won't rent because renting is "dead money". This "dead money" bollocks has obviously been drummed into him by his stupid parents who got married at 12, had 16 children and still managed to buy their first home outright at the age of 21!

2. The young couple with a young child who are renting a tiny, damp flat in the very expensive town they grew up in. They deperately want to buy a property. The problem is their combined income is just about enough to keep them in a tiny, damp flat in the very expensive town they grew up in.

3. The family with the 125% mortgage, living in their "dream home" which they bought at the time when house prices peaked.

4. The 23 year old estate agent who has two mortgages. One on a one bedroom house for himself. The other on a one bedroom flat which he can only rent out at a rate which doesn't cover the mortgage he's paying on it.

5. The divorcee mother of one who expects to be able to pay the mortgage on a three bedroom semi all by herself! Is she crazy?

The only thing you can glean from these exposes is that we are living in idiot Britain. Nowhere did they say that house prices are absolutely fucking obscene and that a lot of decent-earning, sensible people are going to lose their homes or cannot afford to buy. No, they choose bleeding idiots for us to feel superior to.

Dumbing down cunts.


******


N.B. Betty's latest post doesn't seem to have been picked up by Bloglines. Has anybody else had this trouble? Is it something to do with her old skool template? Or has she been barred for taking the piss out of Lily Allen?

I Think I Need Some Sunshine

I'm going through a bit of a "blogging's a great way of making cyber friends but what, honestly, have any of us got in common?" phase. I haven't even got much in common with my real life friends, let alone you bunch of self-publishing egotists. Reading the Dawkins book doesn't help because I don't think I've got much in common with other atheists, either.

Take the British Humanist Association, of which Dawkins is a "distinguished" supporter. "The Humanist view of life is progressive and optimistic, in awe of human potential, living without fear of judgement and death, finding enough purpose and meaning in life, love and leaving a good legacy." So says President Polly Toynbee.

My view of life is pretty much the opposite to that. I am no optimist and I'm not going to leave a good legacy. I'm going to go out in an orgy of drink and drugs, not marveling at Mother Nature through Darwinian spectacles.

And as for the Association's "distinguished" supporters. Sirs, Lords, OBEs, MBEs, CBEs. Sir Jonathan Miller CBE! Come on Jonathan, you can do better than that! Sir Jonathan Miller CBE, GCE, BSc, Phd! There, that's better.

Take Me To The River

I am reading Richard Dawkins' The God Delusion.

"What's the point?" you may ask. "Isn't it preaching to the converted?"

Well, I suppose it is, though I never had to be converted. But so what, anyway? I will read it then I will forget about it. I won't become any more of an atheist for reading it. I won't start arguing with the religious people I meet, asking them for evidence of their God.

I will not wear one of Dawkins' hoodies...




or stick a Darwin fish on my car...



...to proclaim my atheism to the world. I don't take pride in my disbelief. I have never believed in the supernatural. So what?

I'm enjoying the book, especially the arguments for God's existence. There really are some hilarious ones, such as Pascal's wager and Stephen Unwin's Bayesian argument. Why try to justify faith?

Dawkins comes unstuck, though, with his knowledge of popular culture. He asks the question why is the Cluedo character known as the "Reverend Green" in all English speaking areas other than North America, where he is known as plain "Mr Green"?

The answer is, of course, that the Reverend Al Green would sue, not wishing to be associated with a character who bludgeons posh English twats to death with a length of lead piping in the conservatory.

Beneath A Bushel No More

Though I've never watched it, as far as I can tell from reports, Britain's Got Talent consists of hula hoopers, acrobats, karate kickers, dancers, all-rounders, swing singers, opera singers, pop singers, whistlers, spoons players, gurners, teeth chatterers, cheek slappers, cooks, magicians, funny walkers, contortionists, garglers, plate spinners, pie eaters, beer drinkers, balloon shapers, bubble blowers, animal tamers, impressionists, ventriloquists, mind readers, spiritualists, hummers, buzzers, farters, spitters, archers, darts throwers, knife throwers, fire eaters, directory rippers, arse kickers, cellists, violinists, pianists, guitarists, washboard players, rappers, scratchers, strippers, pole dancers, sheep shaggers and car fuckers all competing for one place on the Royal Variety Performance, in front of the ever watchful eye of Simon Cowell.

Well good bloody luck to each and every one of them.

You're Havana Laff

"Allo, Darlin'. I'm gonna laugh you into bed, I am."


Geoff: I quite fancy reading the Fidel Castro autobiography.

Betty: Will that be before or after Booky Wook?

Gore Fest

The South Bank Show on Gore Vidal ends with a bit of awkwardness between the unpredictable 82 year old Vidal and the toadying jet black haired 68 year old Melvyn Bragg.

The camera lingers on Vidal for a while and as he starts to read we see pictures of the Earth in space.

He reads the longest sentence I've ever heard, from 'The Golden Age', 2000. I think this is what he says. It's a little too much for me.

"As for the human case, generations of men come and go and in eternity are no more than bacteria upon a luminous slide and the fall of a republic or the rise of empire, so significant to those involved, is not detectable upon the slide even with an interested eye to behold that steadily proliferating species which would either end in time or, with luck, become something else, since change is the nature of life and its hope."

We see Vidal read the last few lines as operatic music accompanies a still of the man himself and as the credits to the programme roll, as we cogitate in a state of awe, we hear the following voiceover...

"Sarah Ferguson's on a mission to help a family of overweight smokers in the first of a two-part documentary. Can she battle the bulge on a budget? The Duchess in Hull, new to ITV1, tomorrow night at 9. Next here, Hitler In Colour."

What The Papers Say

Yesterday's Guardian today had some truly beautiful travel writing.

"The pace of life isn't a drama here," observed my bloke, contentedly, while we slipped effortlessly from lattes to lunch at the Beach House Cafe, eating oily bruschetta and Thai cod cakes whose mint-laden mayonnaise evoked not Asia but Sunday lunch.

Truly beautiful. And the John Masefield quotes top the article off like a sprinkling of hundreds and thousands on a knickerbocker glory. And all for a mere £2,643 for seven nights in July and August. Dorset is truly God's own country.

*******

And a fantastic full page advertisement on the back page of the Guardian Review:-

"If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to." Dorothy Parker

At Barclays Wealth, we have always recognised that wealth means different things to different people. We can help protect your wealth, grow it, use it and pass it on. And if, like Ms Parker, you are a passionate believer in philanthropic causes, we can even help you give it away.

What wonderful biting wit! Worthy of Mr Wilde or, dare I say it, Ms Parker herself.

Misreading Of The Day

I come downstairs, bleary-eyed. Betty has the BBC Text Music News on the tv.

"Kanye West sued over jizz samples" I read.

Blue Flag. Up Arse. Stick.

If I were John Terry tonight, picking up a copy of the London Lite, I'd be so embarrassed I wouldn't know where to turn.

"He cried all night - Chelsea skipper inconsolable" screams the headline.

I'd be thinking to myself, "Why do I always behave like a spoilt child? Everyone knows a real man cries when he wins, not when he loses."

If I were John Terry today, I'd also be hanging my head in shame. Not for missing a penalty, but for my disgusting unprovoked spit at one of modern football's great players, Carlos Tevez. I'd be worried that Fabio Capello saw my act and won't pick me for England ever again.

The London Lite has got its knickers in a twist about the amount of potential money squandered by Chelsea's inability to win the Champions League.

£5m in prize money
£30m in commercial spin-offs and merchandising
£20m in media rights and sponsorship
£10m in increased tourism for London

Excuse me? Increased tourism for London? Who in their right mind is going to visit London just because one of its football teams won a match? I can see the logic of some idiots visiting London because of the Royal Family's presence (though nowhere near as many idiots as is claimed), but a football team?

What utter bullshit.

Over The Hill

The past couple of weeks have thrown up a similar image to this...




...on Radio One's Big Weekend.

And something similar to this...



...on Later With Jools.

Madonna is 49. Nick Cave is 50. They were at the peak of their creativity in the 1980s. Back in those days Madonna would cavort onstage in all kinds of get ups. She was known for her raunchy, high energy act. Nick Cave was known for his wild, junkie preacher show. Seeing him live was a little unnerving, as I imagine seeing Ian Curtis was to those luckier/more hip than myself.

Now they hide behind guitars. Guitars don't look right on them. Madonna was born to cavort, hands-free. Nick Cave was born to preach, hands-free. A guitar isn't performance-viagra to the middle aged pop star. It is a crutch for a failing body. A body broken and old and withered and worn.

Making pop music is for the young. And these young compatriots of Old Nick have made the album of the year so far. Well, according to the bloke in the Guardian Guide they have. And I, trend-following wanker, find it hard to disagree. Ladies and gentlemen, Cut Copy...

Outrage!

Betty says I have a reputation of being a bit of a Little Englander so I should mention what happened in Sainsbury's yesterday.

I was apoplectic with rage.

We were unloading our basket at the checkout, at the end of the conveyor belt. There was one person being served in front of us.

I looked up and from the checkout next to us, came a man and woman. At the front of OUR conveyor belt, they unloaded one basket. They then placed the divider on the belt. They then unloaded ANOTHER basket. And placed another divider on the belt. They didn't look back at us, at me looking daggers, apoplectic with rage. APOPLECTIC WITH RAGE.

The woman had a badge stuck to her jeans. "Open University" it said. What the fuck kind of education is it that promotes pushing in queues?

Cleans His Teeth Ten Times A Day

The choice of dentists in our area is as follows...

1. The dentist I've had since I was a boy. He does all his own work. He checks, he scrapes, he cleans and polishes. And he fills and extracts. He's in his 60s now and I've spent the past few years going back to him with one problem after another. A young dentist should really be taking his place but he's hanging on. As it's a bit of a journey to get there and I was having more and more time off work, I thought I'd try a nearer, more convenient dentist.

2. A nearer, more convenient dentist. He does all his own work. He checks, he scrapes, he cleans and polishes. And he fills. I'm sure he'd extract if the tooth was beyond a reasonably-priced repair. He's in his 70s now and a young dentist should really be taking his place but he's hanging on. I went back to him several times in a few months with problem after problem.

3. The second nearest, but most convenient dentist as he's open from 8 a.m. I've now settled with this one. He's young and lightning quick. His check-ups last a couple of minutes. He would fill but I'm not sure if he would extract. He's probably one of the new school who like to save teeth as saving teeth generates more income. At another dentist's, my sister has just paid £400 for a cap. My new dentist doesn't scrape, clean or polish. He has a couple of dental hygienists to do that for him.

I've seen her twice. She doesn't look me in the eye. She reads her notes and puts her mask on. She lowers me down until I am horizontal (which I find uncomfortable because of my digestive problem).

"Any problems? No? Good! Using an electric toothbrush like I told you? Good! That's much better! Flossing?"

"No, but I'm using mouthwash."

"Useless. Mouthwash won't get rid of all this. Look at all this debris between your teeth."

"I once tried flossing but I wasn't very good at it. I can't get to the back teeth."

"It's a knack. Start on the front teeth first. You'll get the hang of it. Like this. Up and down. Up and down. Like you're removing glue."

"Nnng."

"You will get the hang of it. When you pay for your visit you will purchase this special floss you cannot get in supermarkets. You will start with the front teeth. Once you have mastered the front teeth you will move to the side teeth. Up and down, up and down. Once you have mastered the side teeth you will go to the back teeth. Up and down, up and down, you will get rid of the debris. You must get rid of the debris! You must! You must! Heil Hitler!"

"Heil Hitler!"

"No, you must raise your left arm like this. Heil Hitler!"

"Heil Hitler!"

"That is much better. I will see you in three months. No longer than three months. We must eradicate this debris. Goodbye."

"Heil Hitler!"

"No, you must walk like this. Heil Hitler!"

"Heil Hitler!"

"Keep walking like this until you get the hang of it. Come on, round the room. Step and step and step, come on, lift those feet!"

"Heil Hitler!"

"Heil Hitler! Good! Keep practising!"

The Boris Johnson Limerick Post

Roll up! Roll up!

It's the Boris Johnson limerick post!

Let's be having your limericks about the great man in the comments section.

The man who promised to stop the rail workers from striking, who promised to rid the city of knife crime, who promised to reintroduce Routemasters, who promised to reduce your Council tax bill and give you better services, who promised to get more black men teaching black boys, who promised to plant a tree with the money he saved from scrapping the Mayor's Londoner newspaper.

Well, actually he has ditched the Londoner and planted a tree with his own bare hands.

Well, actually he didn't do any digging, just moved a bit of earth from A to B.

Anyway, here's mine...

There once was a toff with blond hair
Who had not a singular care
Whether young men were stabbed
Or their killers were nabbed
But he don't sleep at night now he's Mayor

Gordon's Grin

Well what a season that was! Comfortably mid-table right from the word "Go!"

No nail-biting last-week relegation scraps. No heart-stopping promotion play-offs. Just nice relaxing Sundays watching recordings of Sky's excellent Football First highlights. No Match of the Day, with its insufferable smugness and bias towards the teams at the top.

Congratulations to Stoke City on their promotion. Stoke are my second team and the team of the mother-in-law I never met but wish I could have. Gordon Banks' fantastic save from Geoff Hurst's penalty in the 1972 League Cup Semi-Final deserved a winner's medal. And they went on to beat Chelsea in the final. Yes, the great Chelsea with all their history and glamour.

Here's looking forward to next season. The Top Four will be broken. The Nouveaux Riches are coming to get you!

Sweet Smell Of A Successful Relationship

We're talking about relationships, wondering what people's home lives are like and saying how we both thought we'd never find someone we could live with - soppy bollocks like that.

"But you can get too comfortable with someone," says Betty.

"How?" I say.

"There was this woman I used to work with. One day she said how comfortable her and her husband were in each other's company. So comfortable that when she took a bath, he often came into the bathroom, sat on the toilet and had a shit."

"Christ, that's disgusting," I say. "Did he purposely wait till she was in the bath?"

"I don't think so. He used to put a towel over his head while he did it. So he could concentrate on what he was doing."

"How could she say that in the office?"

"The strange thing was, the other women in the office didn't bat an eyelid. They were completely indifferent."

"Maybe that's the norm. Maybe we're not as close as we thought."

Madame Blavatsky

Tim has kindly set me the task to furnish you with eight facts about the phenomenon that was Madame Blavatsky. Madame Blavatsky was a real person, not to be confused with Madame Bovary who was a fictional character. But even a cursory glance at the Russian Madame's life story throws up inconsistencies and it is difficult to separate fact from fiction.

But here we go. In for a penny, in for a pound. 8 Random Facts about the great woman (at least one of which is possibly a Random Fib)...

1. Helena Blavatsky, in 1888, was the first person to use the phrase
“intelligent design” to convey her understanding of evolution. The evolution of the species was guided by an underlying purposeful intelligence in nature. So, Mr Scientist, there is no “chance” about it.

2. Madame Blavatsky was a founder of the Theosphical Society whose chief aim was to “reconcile all religions, sects and nations under a common system of ethics, based on eternal verities.” The creation, therefore, of a groovy Brotherhood of Man.

3. According to Madame Blavatsky herself, she married at 17 to a much older man, stole a horse to escape from her unhappy marriage, and remained a virgin her entire life. As a true practitioner of Theosophy should “live, if the esoteric instructions shall profit him, a life of abstinence in everything, of self-denial and strict morality, doing his duty by all men,” she seems to have done pretty well to control her sexual urges.

4. However, according to other sources, she had several extramarital affairs and even mothered a child. So did she really live a life of abstinence?

5. She claimed to have had childhood visions in the 1830s of a tall Hindu who eventually materialised in Hyde Park and became her guru and advisor. From Hyde Park, she went to Tibet where she was trained by Theosophy masters from 1868 to 1870. She spread the theosophy message around the world till her death in 1891.

6. She was also an Eastern Star Freemason, a member of the largest fraternal organisation in the world that men and women can join. The order is open to people of all monotheistic faiths, so one wonders which god she aligned herself to in order to join up.

7. One of her followers in the 1980s was Roger Taylor of Duran Duran. Roger kept an inspirational photograph (see above) of her taped to his drum kit. Simon Le Bon and John Taylor found this most amusing and wrote a 5 minute jam called Wanking Over Madame B which can be heard on the bootleg album Duran Live In Bogota.

8. In her later years she gained employment as a circus performer and seance assistant. In no way does this discredit the seriousness in which her works are held. In no way at all.

It's A Load Of Bollocks

That's it. I'm scrapping the Low GI Diet. I was so bloated this morning I was surprised nobody congratulated me on my pregnancy.

I'm going to try Prebio 7, a mixture of prebiotics and probiotics. The blurb on the packet says "Shhh...! The French Secret". Shhhit! Jolie Merde! I'll have a stomach like Ian Curtis in no time.

GI Joe, How Low Can You Go?

I never believed there was such a thing as middle aged spread. Until I went to buy some new work trousers a few weeks ago. It seems my waistline (and the waistband of the old trousers) have stretched by three inches in the past year or so.

"I'm spreading," I thought. "I've got to stop spreading NOW".

So how to cut down without feeling pangs of hunger? Not real hunger, of course. Rich, western world hunger, the feeling you get when you're used to overeating and now you've got to eat healthy portions.

My weakness isn't fat or sugar. I have a low fat, low sugar diet. My weakness is complex carbohydrates.

I can't get enough of bread and cereals.

So I was speaking to my old friend, Antony Worrall Thompson. "Wozza," I said. "How come you look so slim these days?"

Look at Wozza in the bad old days...



And Wozza now...



How did he get from being an overweight, unhappy misanthropist to a slim, happily full-of-energy-people-lover?

The Low GI Diet, that's how!

Eating slow release foods that keep you feeling fuller for longer. Throw away that Shredded Wheat, Ian Botham! Have a bowl of All Bran. Discard that wholemeal bread, Lucky Jim! Try some soya and linseed bread or a few oatcakes. Eat less, feel more satisfied and full of energy. Pour away that fruit juice! Eat real fruit. You'll be on your way to your five a day and you won't get the slumps!

That's the theory, anyway. I'm into my third day and it could be a load of bollocks but I must admit the beer I had last night gave me a sugar rush like nothing on earth. It was fucking amazing, man.

Goodbye Red Ken

Remember those early years of Thatcher? When any semblance of socialism in our national government died? So with London today.

Goodbye, Ken. I know you couldn't do much but at least I got to vote for someone I liked and who won for a few years. Now it's back to watching the others get in. Back to cold isolation.


*****


Remember those early years of Thatcher? Remember when we bought those Kid Creole albums to take us away to another place?

I'd heartily recommend Kid Creole: Going Places The August Darnell Years 1976-1983. It's a great compilation from a fantastic period for pop music. It's alright, he doesn't sing on that many of the tracks so if you don't like his voice, get it anyway.


*****


In other news, I've discovered this blog's the best place to find "green pin striped suit plenty of fish".

But I won't carp on about it.

Remember When This Was All Fields?

A few Saturdays ago we left the house for the town centre. As we walked up the street a group of eight nice-looking wouldn't hurt a fly young men were walking towards us. They walked up garden paths and gently posted whatever they were carrying through letterboxes. As we walked past one he smiled at us, a lovely, friendly, in love with life smile.

"I bet they're members of the Green Party," I said to Betty.

Later, when we got home, we discovered a leaflet urging us to vote Green.


*******


Today at work we are talking about yesterday's elections.

"Did you vote?" I ask a younger colleague.

"I didn't vote but everybody I've spoken to, literally all my friends, everybody, voted for the Greens. I was speaking to Kerry this morning and she said her and Steve both voted Green too."

A National Treasure

Richard Hawley's an acquired taste. A taste I try to acquire every so often but just can't quite.

I was listening to the songs on his myspace the other day. Probably the fourth time I've heard them.

"You've got a better voice than him," Betty said to me. "But he's a more passionate singer. You're detached from the songs."

Not that I've got any songs of my own. I sing covers - in the bathroom, the kitchen, the bedroom and the living room. I don't sing in the loft as I'm usually puffing, blowing and swearing when I'm up there.

I once dreamt I went to Richard Hawley's house. It was large and sparsely decorated. Massive rooms contained nothing but Marshall amps. He lived near a railway track and took us for a walk through his orchard to watch the trains go by. All the time we were there he never sang a note. He was overbearingly serious.

How many times does one have to experience an acquired taste to acquire that taste? I'm willing to give Richard Hawley a few more goes. He appears on the new Elbow album so I can't avoid him there. Unless I skip that track which wouldn't be the done thing as albums are meant to be listened to from start to end. The track with Richard Hawley on is my least favourite track on the Elbow album.

Then again, some people might say Elbow were an acquired taste and that Richard Hawley has a wonderful immediacy.

So is this acquired taste business a load of old bollocks? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and everybody has different eyesight which changes over the years. Unless you're the Jean-Michel Jarre fan I used to know, in which case Jarre is God, always will be and nobody else comes close.

Lord, I Have Seen The Light!

And verily did God scoop the mighty Jesus fish from the River Cray, suck out its eyes so it could not see the Devil Livingstone's ungodly work, and parachute it to earth on a fluffy cloud where it did land in the Garden of Weedin' as Betty and Geoff did innocently sleep.

The Jesus fish did transmit pure thoughts to Betty and Geoff's ungodly widescreen tv and behold, a message from God emitted from the mouth of The Chosen One.

O Alan, we are with you, O Champion of London’s most vulnerable – the unborn, the elderly, the refugee.

May every London bus have two signs on its rear -

1. A Jesus fish

2. An "Unborn Child on Board" sticker

Earworm Alert

"This is my least favourite song ever!" I hear from the other office as Smooth plays Don McLean's American Pie.

I agree, it is pretty shit. But it doesn't come close to my least favourite.

I haven't got one, though. I've got so many to choose from.

So I set myself a task. To compile a Nightmare Playlist. Twenty songs (not including novelty records and not having the same artist more than once) I never want to hear again. From the mawkish to the "right on".

So here goes...

1. I Will Always Love You - Whitney Houston

2. There Must Be An Angel (Playing With My Heart) - Eurythmics

3. True - Spandau Ballet

4. My Heart Will Go On - Celine Dion

5. Fields of Gold - Sting

6. Easy Lover - Phil Collins & Philip Bailey

7. Rock DJ - Robbie Williams

8. Brown Eyed Girl - Van Morrison

9. Dancing In The Moonlight - Toploader

10. Somewhere Only We Know - Keane

11. Chasing Cars - Snow Patrol

12. Hello - Lionel Ritchie

13. Isn't She Lovely? - Stevie Wonder

14. 500 Miles - The Proclaimers

15. Sexuality - Billy Bragg

16. London Calling - The Clash

17. 1973 - James "The Cuntster" Blunt

18. Lady In Red - Chris De Burgh

19. It Must Be Love - Madness

20. Sex Bomb - Tom Jones

Christ, what a CD that would make. Have I missed any out? Can you think of a worse playlist? Have you got a least favourite song? What's your favourite crisp flavour, etc, etc...?

Growing Old Gracefully

So we drive 165 miles to visit a 92 year old woman who's lost what little English she had due to two recent strokes.

She can't see us as she's possibly blind in both eyes now, and although we are accompanied by a man who speaks her language, she doesn't acknowledge us. She is not making sense anyway. Her mother and Tito are still alive, if not living together. There is somebody in the home who won't stop singing in Serbo-Croat.

The man who took us to the home is 82. He's pretty sprightly. The only thing he's missing is a sense of direction, understandable when all this used to be fields but isn't any more by any stretch of the imagination. He knocks on three doors for directions as we wonder whether we'll reach the home before we're eligible to be residents there ourselves.

"Don't worry, you'll arrive home before dark," he says later over a calming cup of tea. We don't, thanks to the road-widening on the M1.

Meanwhile at the Masons do my mum's at, things are kicking off. The new generation of hand-shakers are getting pissed as newts, not taking it seriously. If anything they are taking the piss out of Masonry and its customs. Something I regularly do sober.

My widower uncle, a septuagenarian, slowly walks across the expanse of the dance floor to ask a young woman to dance the first dance. He picks her because she is showing a lot of cleavage. Her cups overfloweth. He holds her very close as they smooch. I'm not told what the song is. I'd like to think it's Fat Larry's Zoom. All that's visible of the young floozy is the back of her blonde and red striped straightened hair. The tart, leading him on like that!

And his best friend, who has a history of banter with my mum, decides that tonight is the night to really embarrass her. Instead of giving her a peck on the cheek, he bends her backwards and attempts to snog her. Not once, but twice. The second time he tells her she's got his juices going. They wrestle. She slaps him round the chops.

His wife says he was only getting his own back for previous mickey-taking. But this was going too far. She could have slipped a disc!

Little Frenchman

Imagine, if you will...

Marcel Proust is living in 21st century London. He has a stressful job as a copywriter. In his lunch hour he writes his weblog, Little Frenchman, exploring the themes of time, space and memory. One evening he forgets to turn his computer off. His boss look at the PC's internet site history. The next morning Marcel is sacked for writing on his blog that his boss was "a waste of time and space".

But Marcel has the last laugh. He gets an agent who advises him to turn his blog into a book. He does and it becomes a bestseller. Little Frenchman, the book, is a phenomenon.

Its success makes the news.

"Dooced Proust Rules The Roost!" screams the headline.

Strange Bedfellows: Number 1

Stay At Home, Dads!

Presenters and guests on Sky Sports News are having kittens over parents' and coaches' behaviour at kids' football matches. Parents are being given exclusion zones around the pitches so they don't encroach.

There's nothing worse than a big-mouthed dad. Walk past any kids' match and you'll hear them. The big-mouthed ignorant bullying know-nothing dads who get worked up over a piss poor British-style kick and rush game of so-called football with little skill. It's all about the winning. The fun disappeared decades ago.

"How can we ensure the parents behave?" the experts ask.

Of course the answer is you can't. You've got to keep them away. When I was a kid I would have hated it if my dad had watched me play any of the sports I took part in. Talk about embarrassment! And my dad was a placid, easygoing sort.

These poor kids not only get the embarrassment of failing in front of their parent, they get the added bonus of being embarrassed by the twat's big stupid mouth.

Money For Nothing

On the local news there's a couple who've had their house on the market for six months without a single viewing. The house is in rich rich rich London. How much and when their first ever mortgage was is not stated. I'd guess their original investment was something in the region of £6,000 and by doing fuck all apart from a bit of selling and buying they now have a house worth probably £800,000. A family home in a nice residential London street.

Now they've missed the boat. Maybe they want to retire to the country. But they're just too late. House prices are on the way down. Potential buyers are staying put.

"We do think we've missed the boat. I think if we'd put the house on the market this time last year it would have flown out the door."

Crap Nav

I go downstairs to discuss an important business matter (ha ha ha).

Just as I reach the front counter, a man enters the building.

He is Irish and is looking for Covent Garden Fruit & Veg Market. He said he put SW8 into the sat nav and ended up here.

Here is Covent Garden WC2, in the sparkling, touristy, soulless heart of London.

The original Covent Garden Fruit & Veg Market was here. It was moved to Vauxhall in 1974.

I can't help him on his way because I've no idea where SW8 is or how to get there.

Besides, even if I did know it, I am the world's worst at giving directions.

I Got The Blues (Part 2)

OK, it's the second and final part of the blues competition. I woke up this morning and thought it would be an idea to do it today.

So who are these blues guys? I'm afraid there's no prize this time. Eric Clapton, who signed the CDs for the first part, has withdrawn his services as he is wont to do. I remember when he left The Yardbirds. A tragic time.

But as a special treat for you all, here's 29 seconds of that band's Jeff's Blues, lead guitar by Eric's mate, the great Jeff Beck. Just imagine this in a live setting, seguing into a 30 minute jam.

Lovely.

1.










2.










3.










4.

Another Girl In The Neighbourhood

Just a couple of quotes I've picked up from the internet concerning the new Friday evening ITV sitcom, Teenage Kicks.

Phil McIntyre, executive producer, said: "Ade Edmondson is one of the UK's most loved and talented comedians. This is a long overdue return to Young Ones madness. I am delighted to be working with Adrian and ITV on this five-star comedy mayhem."

Adrian* Edmondson, star and co-writer said: “I think it’s misleading to suggest this show is a return to Young Ones madness. This is much more of a family sitcom. It’s aimed at anyone who’s been a parent or a child. Which, of course, is everyone…"

We saw ten minutes of this on Friday as we'd been reliably informed by the free papers that it was diabolically bad.

It was worse than that. It was a kind of My Family for the "punk" generation.

Actually, scrap that. Adrian might take it as a compliment.



* He's not "Ade" to me.

The Lunatics Are Taking Over The Asylum

Are you voting for Ken, then Geoff?

Of course.

Not Boris?

No. Never in a million years.

Oh, you've got to vote for Boris. He's such an idiot.

No, I'm voting for Ken.

Ken's in it for his mates. Boris is great. He's such an idiot. It'll be good to have an idiot in charge. Better a complete idiot than someone who's in it for his mates.

I Got The Blues (Part 1)

It's competition time again. Part one of two.

Can you work out the names of the following blues/rhythm and blues artists from the pictures?

A signed copy of Eric Clapton's Miserable Old Cunt CD to the competitor with the most correct answers.

1.






2.






3.













4.

Soft Soap